Chapter 103: Letty’s Race, They Stood No Chance, Mercenaries.

Letty exhaled slowly, forcing the world to shrink down to the essentials. 

The roar of the crowd, the jeering, the murmured bets, and the arrogant smirks from the other racers.

None of it mattered.

Breathe.

She flexed her fingers, feeling the rough leather of her gloves stretch against her skin. Adrenaline buzzed in her veins, sharpening her focus. 

Was it excitement? 

Was it the edge of fear? 

Maybe both. Not that it mattered. Fear didn't win races, control did. And Letty had it in spades.

This was just another night, another race. This was her proving ground. These streets had always belonged to her and Dom, their asphalt kingdom where only the best survived. And Braga's crew? They needed to know she wasn't some amateur gunning for attention. She was here to dominate.

Her gaze swept over the competition.

A pair of Nissan Skyline R34s, tuned to perfection, their owners already talking like they had the race in the bag. Straight-line monsters, deadly in a sprint but heavy in the corners. A heavily modified Mazda RX-7 sat low to the ground, wide-body kit making it clear that its driver knew how to dance through tight turns. 

A Dodge Charger rumbled beside it, the kind of raw muscle that could tear through a straightaway with brute force.

Then there was the Lamborghini Murciélago. Sleek, expensive, and loud even when idle. Its owner, a rich second-generation playboy, leaned against the hood, arms crossed, draped in confidence. He caught Letty looking and smirked. She smirked right back.

Money couldn't buy skill. She'd made fools out of rich boys before.

There were other cars, but they were background noise. Nothing that made her sweat.

She walked up to her ride, a blacked-out 1970 Plymouth Road Runner, a machine built from blood, sweat, and asphalt. Every dent, every replaced part, every mod was a story. The engine was a beast, tuned with precision, built for more than speed, it was built to tear through the streets like a predator on the hunt.

Sliding into the driver's seat, she ran her hands over the wheel, feeling the worn grooves beneath her fingertips. 

The seat embraced her like an old friend, molding around her in a way that told her she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

She turned the key. The engine roared to life, a deep, guttural growl that silenced some of the cockier chatter around her.

"Yeah. Let them hear it."

The leader of the race strutted to the front, arms outstretched like some self-proclaimed god of the streets. 

The racers settled in, the energy in the lot shifting from loud bravado to razor-sharp focus.

Back with Guldrin and the others, the tension in the room was palpable. 

They were watching, analyzing, and anticipating. 

But Guldrin? 

His mind was on something else entirely. His instincts were screaming at him, something wasn't right.

"Shiro, run facial recognition on that guy," Guldrin muttered, eyes locked on the screen. His gut instinct had never led him wrong, in this life and the last. "He acts way too unrestrained to be some low-level pawn. Even the guy Mom kneed in the nuts seemed to respect him." He folded his arms, tapping his fingers against his bicep. "We need to figure out who he is. Can you do it?"

Shiro didn't even look up. "Is that even a question?" she scoffed, her fingers flying across the keyboard. "We're wired into the CIA and NSA's servers. Give me a second." Her eyes flickered across the data flooding the screen, cross-referencing images, sifting through classified archives, and digging deeper than any government operative would ever suspect a pair of teens to go.

A few moments later, her brow furrowed. "Huh… That's weird."

Guldrin leaned in. "What?"

Shiro scratched the back of her head, clearly intrigued but also a little annoyed. "His name is listed as Ramon Campos." She tilted her head, scanning the files again. "But here's the thing, he's got no paper trail. No records. No digital footprint. It's like he just appeared some years ago."

Guldrin narrowed his eyes. "That's not normal."

"Yeah, no shit." Shiro's fingers danced across the keyboard again, pulling up deeper files. "Someone with high-level clearance created a false identity for him. Labeled him as a refugee. Wiped out whatever his actual past was."

Guldrin's frown deepened. "That doesn't sound like some random thug under a big boss. That sounds like a ghost."

"Exactly," Shiro said, her voice tinged with suspicion. "It's kinda sus for some street-level enforcer to have a completely fabricated identity backed by government clearance." She scrolled further, but the more she looked, the clearer it became, someone powerful had buried this guy's past so deep, that even their backdoor access couldn't crack it. "I think there's more to him than meets the eye."

She leaned back in her chair, fingers drumming impatiently against the desk as her eyes scanned the empty spaces between the digital footprints. Whoever had scrubbed this guy's records had done more than just a routine cleanup. This wasn't some lazy government redaction, the kind that still left breadcrumbs if you knew where to look. No, this was deliberate. Surgical. Erased with precision so absolute it left nothing behind. 

Not a trace, not a whisper, not even a shadow.

That meant one thing.

He wasn't just some hired muscle. He wasn't some low-level enforcer running errands for a bigger player. People like that had records, even if they were buried under false names or stacked under layers of shell corporations. No, this was something else entirely.

And that made him dangerous.

Guldrin let out a slow, measured breath, trying to ignore the weight that had settled in his chest. He didn't like this. Not one bit. The deeper they dug, the worse it looked. And out there, right now, in the middle of all this mess, was Letty. Caught in something that wasn't some street race. This wasn't about bragging rights or pink slips anymore. If it ever was.

This was bigger. 

Dirtier.

His grip tightened around the edge of the desk.

Shiro, sitting beside him, let out a sigh of her own, fingers moving deftly across the keyboard as lines of code scrolled rapidly down the screen. She was already pivoting, adapting to the reality of their situation the way she always did, cool, calm, and precise.

"Well," she said, tilting her head slightly, "whoever scrubbed his records didn't account for me. I might not be able to figure out who he is, but at least we know something is off with this situation. Pull hard enough and something will come undone… The bugs won't give us a full picture of the race, but I can tap into the local traffic and security cameras. It won't be perfect, but it's better than nothing."

Her eyes flicked over to Guldrin for a brief second, gauging his reaction.

He nodded.

"Do it."

Within seconds, she was in.

A mosaic of security feeds flickered to life across the monitors, grainy black-and-white footage from traffic cams, security feeds from storefronts, a mix of angles all converging on the city streets. The quality varied, some feeds better than others, but together they formed a rough map of the race.

Their attention snapped back to the live feed as the man in question, Ramon Campos, stepped forward.

"Alright, listen up!" his voice boomed over the roaring engines, cutting through the noise like a blade.

The racers quieted, their grips tightening on their steering wheels, their eyes locked onto the man holding court.

"This ain't your mama's street race." He grinned, the kind of grin that made it clear he wasn't talking trash. "You got one route, one shot, and one rule, don't get caught 'cause we ain't bailing you out."

Laughter rippled through the crowd like waves against a rocky shore, each chuckle laced with anticipation, excitement, and the ever-present scent of burning rubber. Letty didn't join in. Her fingers tightened around the worn leather of her steering wheel, knuckles taut, her pulse steady despite the electricity in the air. The race was always unpredictable, but the route? That was the true wildcard.

"The course?" someone shouted from the throng of racers, their voice barely cutting through the symphony of revving engines.

A slow grin spread across Ramos' face as he lifted a hand and pointed toward the horizon, where the city lights shimmered like scattered diamonds. 

The man had the air of someone who knew he controlled the room, or in this case, the streets.

"Follow the GPS you were given," he called, amusement in his voice as if he enjoyed dangling the unknown in front of them like a carrot on a stick.

Letty's lips curled into a smirk. Perfect.

There was no greater thrill than diving into a race-blind, relying purely on instinct, skill, and the gut feeling that separated the best from the wrecked. This wasn't some well-organized event with neatly marked lanes, this was war, asphalt battlegrounds, where only the sharpest survived.

Ramos, seemingly content to let the chaos unfold, lifted his hand again and gestured for a barely-dressed woman, legs for days, a smirk that promised trouble, to take center stage. She strutted forward, her movements deliberate, exaggerated, milking the attention of the restless crowd as she raised one manicured hand.

"Three."

Engines howled, snarling beasts ready to be unleashed, shaking the pavement with their collective hunger. Letty rolled her shoulders, muscles coiling like a spring, her focus narrowing to a razor's edge.

"Two."

Her heartbeat matched the rhythm of her growling engine. That intoxicating moment, the one right before everything erupted into beautiful, uncontrollable chaos, was the high she chased and couldn't get enough of.

"One."

Ramos and the woman dropped their arm.

The street detonated into pure, unfiltered madness.

The air filled with the shriek of tortured tires clawing at the asphalt, engines bellowing their fury as a dozen cars launched forward in a blur of headlights and fire.

Letty's 1970 Plymouth Road Runner responded to her like an extension of her own body, rocketing off the line with a brutal, gut-punching force that left lesser cars choking on the smoke of her tires. 

The world around her became a tunnel of movement, sharp flashes of neon signs, the blur of bodies diving out of the way, the erratic taillights of her competitors weaving through the chaos.

The Charger to her left immediately swerved, trying to cut her off with an aggressive block. 

Letty barely flinched. She flicked the wheel a hair to the right, threading herself into the narrow space between the sleek, menacing Murciélago and the nimble RX-7. 

Inches. 

That was all she had to work with, the margin between success and catastrophe razor-thin, but she didn't hesitate.

'Thread the needle. Feel the gap. Take it.' She recited to herself,

The Road Runner sliced through the opening like a bullet, escaping the squeeze with only the ghost of turbulence rattling her door.

The first real obstacle reared up ahead, a brutal, unforgiving right turn. 

This was where the weak would fold, where the amateurs would be exposed.

Letty didn't flinch.

The roar of high-performance engines filled the night, a symphony of power and aggression that sent vibrations through the very pavement. Letty's hands remained steady on the wheel, her fingers tightening instinctively around the grip as she took in every little detail of the road ahead. The city lights blurred into streaks of neon in her peripheral vision, but her focus remained razor-sharp.

With a calculated flick of her wrist, she sent the Road Runner into a controlled slide, the rear tires screaming in protest as they struggled for traction. 

The rear end kicked out just enough to kiss the edge of danger, but Letty had it locked down. She feathered the throttle, adjusting with expert precision, countersteering at the exact moment necessary. 

The car obeyed her like it was an extension of her own body, gliding through the corner with the kind of confidence that came from years of living and breathing street racing.

The acrid scent of burnt rubber filled the air, thick and unmistakable, mingling with the gasoline fumes and the faint, electric buzz of adrenaline. 

To anyone else, it might have been overwhelming, but to Letty, it was the perfume of victory.

She lived for this.

A blur of movement in her side mirror caught her attention. She already knew what was about to happen before the sickening screech of metal against concrete confirmed it. The RX-7 had miscalculated. Its driver, either too eager or too green, clipped the curb, sending the car sideways in a spectacular display of sparks and chaos. The back end fishtailed violently, the driver overcorrecting, desperately trying to regain control.

Letty smirked. "Rookie mistake."

No time to dwell.

The road ahead twisted unpredictably, a labyrinth of asphalt and sudden turns that tested reflexes more than raw speed. 

The GPS barely kept up with the course Ramos had laid out, recalculating every few seconds like it was just as confused as the racers flying through the streets. 

But Letty didn't need it. She didn't trust digital directions over her instincts. 

She knew how the city breathed, how it shifted under the weight of late-night traffic and the occasional pothole waiting to snap an axle. The streets were in her blood. All she needed was to know the destination, the rest was background noise.

Up ahead, the Murciélago surged forward, its V12 screaming, its sleek body cutting through the night like a blade. 

It was the kind of car that turned heads, the kind of car driven by men who thought money could buy them skill. 

Letty had seen their type before, guys who believed that a six-figure price tag and launch control were enough to make them kings of the road.

She was about to prove them wrong.

A sharp left loomed ahead. Letty read the Murciélago's driver like an open book, he was committed too hard to the straight, relying on speed instead of positioning. 

"Rookies, all of 'em,"

He was gambling that his horsepower could carry him through, but he didn't have the control to handle what came next.

Letty didn't hesitate.

She downshifted in an instant, the growl of her engine turning into a throaty roar as she threw the Road Runner into the turn. The tires clung to the pavement with stubborn determination, and she held the drift perfectly, skimming the inside lane with surgical precision.

The Murciélago's driver realized his mistake too late.

He slammed on the brakes, trying to adjust, but the inertia betrayed him. His car skidded wide, burning rubber and time, forcing him to fight the wheel just to keep from plowing into a parked car.

Letty shot past him before he could recover, locking him out of the lead.

"Too easy," she muttered, grinning as she watched his headlights shrink in her mirror.

Behind her, chaos was still unfolding.

The deafening symphony of engines roared through the streets, a chaotic blend of horsepower and adrenaline that sent vibrations up through the asphalt. 

The air reeked of burnt rubber, exhaust fumes, and the faint metallic scent of overheating brakes. Every driver on this course was pushing their machine to its absolute limit, and some were already regretting it.

A Skyline, sleek and aggressive, tried to force its way through the pack, its driver desperate to claw ahead. But desperation made people sloppy. 

It clipped a dumpster at high speed, sending a spectacular burst of sparks cascading across the street like fireworks. The driver fought the wheel, tires screeching in protest, but they had already lost precious time.

Meanwhile, the Charger was an entirely different story. It wasn't weaving or dodging, it was plowing through the competition like a runaway freight train. 

That thing was built for raw, unrelenting power. The driver didn't care about precision or finesse. They relied on brute force, bullying their way forward with sheer weight and horsepower. And in a straight line, it was unstoppable.

But races weren't won in straight lines.

Letty knew that better than anyone.

She was a predator. And right now, she was hunting.

The road stretched ahead, inviting the reckless to bury the throttle and let their horsepower do the talking. It was the kind of stretch that lured in the arrogant, the overconfident, the ones who thought speed alone made them kings. 

But Letty had seen too many guys dump all their power into the straightaway, only to eat asphalt when the next turn came up faster than they expected.

And this next turn? 

It was merciless.

Her fingers tightened on the wheel, muscles coiled like springs, ready to execute the maneuver that would separate the real racers from the fools.

Then, in her mirror, she caught a flash of silver.

A sleek NSX was carving through traffic with almost surgical precision. No reckless weaving, no last-second panic corrections, just smooth, calculated aggression. That wasn't some idiot mashing the gas and hoping for the best. 

That was someone who understood how to drive.

Letty's grin widened.

"Finally. A challenge."

She didn't have time to analyze them any further. The intersection was coming up fast, and she could already hear the chaos behind her, brakes locking up, tires squealing, drivers realizing too late that they had misjudged their approach.

"Amateurs."

She braked hard, just enough to shift the weight of the car, then threw the wheel, letting the Road Runner's back end swing out into a textbook-perfect drift. 

The world tilted for a fraction of a second, her entire body syncing with the motion as she feathered the throttle, keeping just enough control to whip around the turn without losing momentum.

For that brief moment, she was weightless.

Then the tires found their grip again, and she rocketed forward, barely losing a fraction of a second.

The Murciélago behind her wasn't so lucky.

Letty didn't even have to look. She knew the moment it happened. The high-revving scream of the Italian supercar suddenly changed, an awkward, desperate correction, the unmistakable skidding sound of tires losing their battle with physics. Then, a dull thud of metal against metal.

"Poor bastard."

But the NSX? That one made it.

Not just made it, gained.

Letty's heart pounded in excitement. Whoever they were, they weren't just fast and relying on their car. They were smart.

She slammed the gas, feeling the Road Runner surge forward like an unleashed beast. The NSX wasn't letting up, though. It stuck to her like a shadow, smooth as glass, threading through gaps in traffic like it had rehearsed this course a thousand times.

Most people would have been unnerved.

Letty?

She was grinning so wide it hurt.

This was what she lived for.

Up ahead, the road narrowed into a claustrophobic stretch between warehouses, the kind of place where one wrong move meant scraping paint, or worse. 

She took the left lane, forcing the NSX to either back off or take the riskier inside line.

To her absolute delight, they took the risk.

The NSX dove for the gap with inches to spare, its driver showing zero hesitation. 

The two cars screamed forward side by side, their reflections flashing in the darkened windows.

Letty felt her adrenaline spike.

"Alright, let's see what you've got."

She flicked her eyes forward, calculating the next obstacle. A right turn was coming up, followed by a deadly chicane, a nightmare of alternating left, and right cuts designed to break the rhythm of anyone. 

This was where skill took over.

The NSX knew it too.

At the last possible moment, the driver braked hard, loading up the front end before diving into the turn with the kind of controlled aggression that only came from experience. Letty matched them move for move, their cars dancing through the chicane in perfect sync.

For a second, it was just the two of them. No chaos, no distractions.

Just pure racing.

Then, out of nowhere, headlights.

A civilian car.

Dead ahead.

Letty's grip tightened, her instincts screaming. There was no room for both of them. One of them had to bail.

The NSX hesitated for a fraction of a second. That was all she needed.

With razor-sharp precision, Letty flicked the wheel and forced her Road Runner into an impossibly tight squeeze, barely slipping past the unsuspecting driver's front bumper.

The NSX wasn't so lucky.

They had no choice but to tap the brakes, losing just enough momentum to fall behind.

Letty let out a breathless laugh.

"Nice try."

She gunned it, her car roaring forward, the finish line drawing closer with every passing second. The race wasn't over yet, but she had the lead, and that was all she needed.

Behind her, the NSX was already recovering, but Letty knew the truth.

They had hesitated.

And in a race like this?

Hesitation was death.

Or loss, whichever came first.

The finish line loomed ahead, a mere two hundred yards away, bathed in the flickering glow of streetlights and neon reflections. Letty could almost taste victory, but the race wasn't over yet.

Behind her, the NSX roared back to life, its driver throwing caution to the wind. They had lost their rhythm, but desperation had a way of making people unpredictable. 

The silver machine swerved dangerously close, trying to dive into her slipstream, hoping for one last slingshot to steal the win.

Not a chance.

Letty flicked her eyes to her side mirror. The NSX was gaining, its headlights bobbing violently over the uneven pavement. 

The driver was throwing everything they had into this final stretch, but Letty had no intention of letting them through. She held her line, her foot buried against the accelerator, her fingers coiled around the wheel in a death grip.

Just ahead, a battered old sedan idled near the curb, an obstacle neither of them could afford to ignore. 

Letty smirked. 

This was it.

She edged right, just enough to bait the NSX into the outside lane. The driver took the bait. 

"Good."

Then she cut hard left, giving herself just enough space to squeeze past the sedan without lifting off the gas. The NSX wasn't so lucky. The driver had been too greedy, too focused on catching her.

Too slow to react.

There was a sudden, ear-splitting screech of metal. The NSX's front bumper clipped the sedan, sending it into a violent spin. The once-controlled machine became a missile, careening sideways, tires screaming in agony.

Then.

The impact.

The NSX slammed into a concrete barrier, the force of the crash sending debris flying like shrapnel. Glass shattered, sparks erupted, and for the briefest moment, Letty swore she saw the driver's hands flailing against the airbag before everything disappeared in a cloud of dust and smoke.

One down.

But the others weren't far behind.

The Charger, still an unstoppable brute, was charging forward like a wrecking ball. The driver, seeing the NSX go down, doubled down on their own reckless approach. Their headlights flared brightly in her mirror, illuminating the back of her Road Runner in an eerie glow.

Letty clenched her jaw.

They were trying to take her out.

A dark shape loomed ahead, a massive construction site barrier, half-covered in faded warning signs. The road narrowed dangerously. There was barely enough room for two cars side by side.

The Charger didn't slow down.

Letty's mind raced. If she hesitated, if she panicked for even a second, she'd be the one eating concrete.

So she didn't hesitate.

She took the inside line, the riskier path, hugging the curve so close she could hear the scrape of gravel against her tires. 

The Charger tried to muscle its way past her, but it had made one fatal mistake, it was too big, too wide.

The driver realized it too late.

A sickening crunch echoed through the streets as the Charger's right side clipped the barrier at full speed. The force yanked the car sideways, its front end lifting slightly before slamming back down in a shower of sparks. The back tires skidded violently, smoke billowing from the wheel wells as the car fought to correct itself.

But it was already over.

The Charger's momentum carried it straight into a support pillar, the impact crumpling the front end like a tin can. 

The driver had no time to react. 

No time to scream. 

Just the dull, brutal finality of metal meeting concrete.

Two down.

Letty exhaled, heart pounding. She was the last one left in sight.

The finish line was seconds away.

She punched the gas, the roar of the Road Runner filling the empty street as she blasted past the final marker. The wind screamed past her open window, the city lights blurring into streaks of color.

She had won.

But there was no time to celebrate.

She downshifted smoothly, letting the Road Runner glide into the parking garage, the deep growl of the engine echoing off the concrete walls before she finally let it settle into an idle. 

The adrenaline was still there, thrumming through her veins, making her fingers tremble slightly against the wheel. 

She exhaled slowly, trying to calm her breathing, but it was pointless. That race had been a war, and she had won. 

Every turn, every moment of hesitation from her opponents, every perfectly timed shift, she had owned that road.

Now, it was over.

Or so she thought.

Movement in the corner of her vision.

She didn't turn her head immediately, just watched through the side mirror as three figures emerged from the shadows near one of the parking garage's stairwells. They moved with the kind of purpose that sent alarms blaring in the back of her mind. Not drunk street racers looking to talk shit, not some sore losers trying to pick a fight over a blown engine.

No, these men were different.

Burly. Rough-looking. The way they carried themselves, the way they spread out just enough to block any easy exit, it all screamed experience. 

Not the kind you got from bar brawls or back-alley deals, but the kind that came from real training. The kind you got from doing things normal people would never speak of.

Her pulse slowed, but not out of fear.

Out of focus.

She unbuckled her harness slowly, her fingers flexing subtly as she shifted her weight. She knew better than to make any sudden moves, but every instinct she had was screaming at her that this wasn't random. This was too deliberate. Too calculated.

They had been waiting for her.

The tallest of the three, an older bearded thick-necked brute with broad shoulders and long hair, smirked as he took a step closer. His boots scuffed against the concrete, slow and deliberate.

"Hell of a race," he said, his voice rough, the kind that came from years of cigarettes, whiskey, and too many nights spent yelling over chaos.

Letty didn't respond. She just watched him, eyes cool, posture loose but ready.

Silence was its own weapon.

The second man, shorter but no less built, had a buzzed haircut and hands that looked like they'd broken more bones than they had ever built anything. He was a shorter Asian man who carried himself like a seasoned vet and cracked his knuckles, the sound loud in the still air.

"Didn't think you'd be the only one making it to the end," he mused, his gaze flicking toward the distant wreckage on the main road. Smoke still curled up under the streetlights from the mangled remains of the Charger and NSX.

Letty tilted her head slightly, offering nothing.

The third guy, the one who hadn't spoken yet, was the one who set off the biggest warning bells. He was an African American with short hair and wasn't as bulky as the other two, but the way he stood, the way he kept his hands loose at his sides like he was always ready to move, she recognized that kind of awareness.

This one, he was trained.

They all were.

She exhaled slowly through her nose. "You boys just here for the show, or do you actually have a reason for being in my face?"

The older one grinned.

"Oh, we got a reason. You won the race, now you do the job, load up into the semi-truck here, and wait for arrival. Get some rest, you're gonna need it. Braga expects big things from you little Missy." He gestured to an open semi-truck ready to load her up and take her to God-knows where.

The way he said it made Letty's skin crawl.

She was alone. No backup. No one to watch her back.

At least, that's what she thought.

Half a city away, inside a dimly lit room filled with screens and glowing monitors, four figures watched everything unfold in real-time.

Guldrin's fingers curled so tightly against the desk's edge that his knuckles turned bone-white, the pressure enough to make the wood creak in protest. His sharp blue eyes, normally filled with quiet calculation, were locked onto the grainy live feed, watching as Letty stood alone, confronted by three men who practically oozed bad intentions.

Shiro, sitting beside him, was just as tense, her golden eyes flickering between the screen and the three men like a predator sizing up a threat. The usual playful glint in her expression was gone, replaced by something cold, something dangerous.

Across from them, Alisa's fingers danced over the keyboard with inhuman precision, her focus razor-sharp. 

The screen in front of her lit up with an expanding grid of data as she bypassed firewalls, surveillance feeds, and buried government files in mere seconds.

"Running facial recognition now," she announced, her voice even and crisp, but there was a subtle edge to it.

Revy, leaning back lazily with a cigarette tucked between her lips, let out a dry chuckle. "They look like a couple of assholes to me. Let's just go there and put a few rounds in 'em. Problem solved."

No one responded immediately. Guldrin's jaw tightened as he watched the screen. Letty was standing firm, her posture radiating confidence, but confidence wasn't going to cut it against men like this.

Then, the results popped up.

Red warning markers flashed beside each name. A grim list of offenses followed names, locations, and actions that had been erased from official reports but not from the digital fingerprints they left behind.

Shiro's expression darkened as she stood next to Alisa and skimmed through the profiles, her usual teasing tone nowhere to be found. "This isn't random," she said, voice tight. She tapped a finger against the screen, highlighting the names in rapid succession. "Jim Pruitt. Former Chief Petty Officer. Dishonorably discharged. Spencer Geiger. Ex-Sgt. Spencer Geiger, was also dishonorably discharged. Mike Bashille. Former Scout Sniper, All of them Marine Corps. Same deal."

Guldrin's stomach twisted. He didn't even need to ask why they were kicked out. The files practically bled red flags.

Shiro continued, her voice quieter now, but filled with a dangerous kind of certainty. "They were part of some real nasty shit overseas. Black ops stuff that never made it to the news. Then they joined a group called Anvil. Private military, underground contracts, and some cartel connections along with other nasty dealings. They do cleanup jobs. The kind of people you send in when you don't want there to be any survivors and don't care how it's done."

Guldrin's gaze was locked onto the screen, his piercing blue eyes glowing in the dim light of the room. The grainy feed displayed Letty, standing tall and defiant, but surrounded. She didn't know what she was up against.

She had just dominated a race, pushed past the limits of her machine, and outmaneuvered every driver on the street. 

But at this moment, this wasn't about the race anymore.

The moment the engines cooled, and the dust settled, the real danger crept in. Letty was outnumbered, staring down three men who weren't street racers, weren't the usual low-level thugs looking to throw their weight around.

No. 

These men were something else entirely.

Revy let out a low chuckle from where she was slouched in the chair, stretching her arms over her head before cracking her neck. The wicked gleam in her eyes said she was already thinking about how much fun it'd be to introduce these bastards to a bullet.

"Well, shit," she muttered, exhaling smoke through her teeth. "Looks like tonight just got interesting."

But Guldrin wasn't laughing.

His entire presence had changed, gone was the easy, almost lazy confidence that he usually carried, the quiet amusement that often lingered in his sky-blue gaze. Now, his expression was unreadable, his aura shifting into something heavier, darker. His Demonic features slowly made themselves known as he grew horns and crackled with red lightning that promised pain, unlike anything these men had seen.

Not fear.

Not hesitation.

Fury.

Letty was family.

And family didn't get left behind.

Shiro had already pulled up another screen, her golden eyes flickering over lines of data as she tore through secure files with an ease that would have made most intelligence agencies panic.

Guldrin's voice was calm, but there was something lethal buried beneath it. "Look into Anvil. Get me everything."

Because he knew the truth better than most, power wasn't just about strength, skill, or even fear. 

Power was information. 

And before the night was over, he was going to know exactly who his enemies were.

And then?

Then they were going to regret ever thinking they could touch his family.

(Give me your POWER, Please, and Thank You! Leave reviews and comments, they motivate me to continue.)